


something's gotta give

by bokutoma



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agents of Fen'Harel, F/M, Protective Fenris, Tevinter Culture and Customs, Tevinter Imperium, ex slaves bonding, shem hating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17040200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: sonsyrea, former slave to house urathussonsyrea, escaped property of the magisterium of the tevinter imperiumsonsyrea, who wreaked vengeance upon slaverssonsyrea, servant of val royeauxsonsyrea, chosen one





	1. PROLOGUE - bondage

_She skidded around a corner, feet barely audible even as they slapped against stone with increasing force. There was no time to waste, not if she wanted to be free, not if she wanted to rid herself of this nightmare forever._

_Maker knew that this was her most fervent desire._

_"Sonsyrea," a voice crooned, so close she could taste the sound like acrid black smoke on her tongue. "Come here, pet."_

* * *

_Augustine Urathus was the monster that had plagued her both in dreams and in the waking world for years, but Sonsyrea would not let him devour her again, not anymore._

* * *

_The wisp guided her, a pale blue beacon in the midnight gloom of the estate, and she did not hesitate in following. Light began to bloom underneath the cracks of the doors, and finally, she was free. She took a tentative step forward, desperate to taste the outside air._

_The wisp pushed her back._

_Even as she opened her mouth to protest, a guard rounded the corner, and the Fade creature took residence inside her. A flood of power stormed through her veins, and though she did not relish what she must do, she knew that she had little choice._

* * *

_Her Urathus tunic would do her one final good. With nimble fingers, she tore the patched crest from the scratchy fabric and tossed it into the vineyard dirt around her, before thinking better of her decision and toeing it beneath the soil. The harder it was to find, the more time she had._

_Once she was satisfied enough with the hiding, she tore the seams of the tunic until it lay flat. deftly re-knotting it until it became a makeshift sack. She filled it swiftly, working down the line so the loss of so many grapes was barely noticeable. A handful were saved to indulge herself in now, fuel for the road, and as they burst between her teeth, she let herself dream._

* * *

_In the distance, the barest hint of the city could be seen against the horizon, austere and dangerous. Still, this was a wilderness she was used to navigating; bartering and trickery had been her weapons when she held no blades. She would be safe, she was certain._

_She could not let herself think of the consequences otherwise._


	2. push me again

The air was dark and warm, oppressive heaviness pressing down on her shaking form as she darted through the halls, doing her best to remain unseen. She could not be caught, could not even think her own name for fear of luring her persistent demon to her location.

She skidded around a corner, feet barely audible even as they slapped against stone with increasing force. There was no time to waste, not if she wanted to be free, not if she wanted to rid herself of this nightmare forever.

Maker knew that this was her most fervent desire.

"Sonsyrea," a voice crooned, so close she could taste the sound like acrid black smoke on her tongue. "Come here, pet."

She froze, catching herself mid-step, and turned toward the voice, eyes welling with desperate, frustrated tears as she bowed her head submissively. "My lord."

Augustine Urathus slid from the shadows like oil, and though his steps were measured and precise, Sonsyrea felt his presence ooze toward her. She tensed every muscle in her body, begging herself not to flinch away.

In another life, she might have been able to admit that Magister Urathus's heir was not altogether unpleasant to look at, for a human, with his high cheekbones and piercing green eyes, but as it was, it was  _not_ another life, and the sight of him made her want to retch.

"What's your hurry, bunny?" Augustine asked, his voice reverberating through the quiet until it seemed to invade her. "Going somewhere?"

"Trying to finish my duties, my lord," she replied, blinking back the wetness of her eyes and folding her hands together to stop their shaking. "One of the new...staff spilled on the lord magister's favored entertaining tablecloth. I'm ensuring that it's cleaned and dried by morning."

Augustine's hand darted out suddenly, viper-like, and grasped her chin, tilting her face so he could study it. His eyes searched every faint freckle, each involuntary movement, and she could not help but hold her breath.

"So it seems," he said, but he still didn't release her. A half smile played at the corner of his mouth, the knowing look of a predator in his eyes, and, as he drew closer, she was helpless to do anything but close her eyes.

She felt his hot breath at her ear a moment before he bit down, and she cried out, reluctantly pleasured pain lancing down her spine. 

"That eager for me, bunny?" he whispered, tracing the point of her ear with a delicate finger. "That desperate to have your tight little cunt filled by your master?"

Augustine Urathus was the monster that had plagued her both in dreams and in the waking world for years, but Sonsyrea would not let him devour her again, not anymore.

With force that shouldn't have been possible from her lithe, gaunt form, she shoved him away, an earsplitting screech issuing from somewhere deep inside her. As he stumbled back, she lunged toward him, two knives she had stolen from the butcher dropping from their hidden sheaths in her sleeves to her hands.

 _"Never again,_ you flea-bitten, bare skinned shemlen whelp!" she cried, and her voice seemed to echo and multiply in the empty hall. "Never again will you touch me!"

Sonsyrea moved as if guided by the hands of the Maker; Augustine's head cracked against the stone wall, leaving a smear of blood against old, hallowed architecture, and one blade carved a thin, deep line across his chest before the mage could get ahold of himself.

"Kaffas!" he swore, spitting red flecks. "I gave you  _everything,_ you knife-eared whore! You do yourself a great injustice tonight. I will have you flayed alive, and then I will take my sweet time using you as I see fit."

A split second before he before he cast the spell, she saw it, and dodged just as he hurled a bolt of lightning where she had been standing. Another flash of steel glinted through the darkness, drawing a savage line along his face, running dangerously close to his eye.

"I missed," she said, and distantly wondered at the eerie calm that had overtaken her. "Come closer. Let me try again."

"Crazy bitch!" Augustine spat. There was raw fear in his eyes. She reveled in it. "I will drain the blood from your veins and bathe in it."

He lifted his hands to cast another spell, but she was already behind him, arms wrapped around him in a lethal lover's embrace, scoring him with deep, ragged wounds.

He howled, and, as if waking from a trance, she realized the noise they had been making.

She would not die today.

"Run, little rabbit," Sonsyrea commanded, and she was proud that her voice didn't shake even as her strength abandoned her. "You are not the wolf here any longer."

He scrambled backward, unsteady, tottering on wounded limbs, and as he turned his head, she ran.

The halls seemed endless, like every twist and turn was simply returning her to where she had started. She prayed wordlessly, begged for strength, for guidance, for clarity of fucking mind.

It came to her in the form of a wisp. She was not entirely unfamiliar with these sorts of creatures, given her close and often unwanted relationship with the Urathus family, but never before had one approached her.

She had little time to question.

The wisp guided her, a pale blue beacon in the midnight gloom of the estate, and she did not hesitate in following. Light began to bloom underneath the cracks of the doors, and finally, she was free. She took a tentative step forward, desperate to taste the outside air.

The wisp pushed her back.

Even as she opened her mouth to protest, a guard rounded the corner, and the Fade creature took residence inside her. A flood of power stormed through her veins, and though she did not relish what she must do, she knew that she had little choice.

 _Still,_ a voice seemed to whisper.  _The guards have never been kind to you._

Perhaps if this was a thing that must be done regardless, it would not hurt to take some small pleasure in cutting the man down.

Sonsyrea stepped into the man's shadow and drew two slow, parallel lines against his throat, warm pulses of blood spattering against her hands. She grinned wolfishly.

Maybe she had more time than she thought.


	3. hungry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the flight from minrathous; she survives, but only because she must

Flight from the Urathus estate had not been difficult to achieve. Sonsyrea had nearly been off the grounds entirely by the time the guards had been alerted, ten bodies and the gravely injured Augustine in her wake. It did not matter that twice that number now surrounded her; the wisp pulsed strength into her body, but she was already high on the feeling of revenge. She had no master, no bindings, and she fought like the wild thing she was, born of earth and pain and bleeding hearts.

With every kill, she pretended they were the masters of the house. There were no merciful, clean deaths, not for the willing or the unmoving. No one would escape her reach.

By the time the estate was no longer visible against the horizon, she had left forty some men dead, a sparse trail of the injured the only sign of the direction she had gone in.

Minrathous was not far, had always been as close to a friend as the wretched Imperium would allow. Part of her desperately craved the familiarity, the unimportance she felt being a part of a crowd, but it was not a good idea. In Minrathous, word always got around somehow, and the best way to disappear was to do it completely.

It was a game in which time was the only advantage she was afforded. SHe would take it where she could; she would survive because she had to.

The fields of Tevinter were lush with carefully cultivated vegetation, fruit hanging thick and tempting all around her as she cut through the growth.

She had to eat.

Sonsyrea had been layering her clothes despite the sticky, sweltering heat for months now, the only form of protective armor she had, and her Urathus tunic would do her one final good. With nimble fingers, she tore the patched crest from the scratchy fabric and tossed it into the vineyard dirt around her, before thinking better of her decision and toeing it beneath the soil. The harder it was to find, the more time she had.

Once she was satisfied enough with the hiding, she tore the seams of the tunic until it lay flat. deftly re-knotting it until it became a makeshift sack. She filled it swiftly, working down the line so the loss of so many grapes was barely noticeable. A handful were saved to indulge herself in now, fuel for the road, and as they burst between her teeth, she let herself dream.

* * *

The days blurred together in a haze. The wisp had left her ages ago, but she hadn't wasted energy asking why, or even questioning why it had chosen her in the first place. Last night, she had stalked the hidden places of a nearby town. There was no word about the hunt for her, nothing about the Urathus estate at all. So far, she had been able to outpace the news, her aching legs and half-empty stomach a small price to pay for expanded liberty.

When the villagers abandoned their homes in favor of food or friends, she stole into them, a frightfully disheveled wraith, lifting silver from floorboards and bread from the table. 

She had crossed half the Imperium in the time it took Augustine to plan one of his frivolous balls; she had outwitted the men who had diagrams and charts on how to extract the most blood from an unwilling slave, how to maximize suffering for the entertainment of a crowd.

Two months had passed in the she had been running. It had been the beginning of Eluviesta since the Urathus heir had laid a hand on her, and now Ferventis was in full swing; Sonsyrea had never been so glad for the summer heat.

Nessum was the next stop: she had little choice but to continue heading directly south, then swing east along the southern border until she could cross into Nevarra. This was all happening rather easier than expected. Why she had not escaped years ago was beyond her.

Several towns back, she had swapped her knives for iron daggers of no particular quality. Still, they would hold better in a fight with someone of actual skill, and the hilts fit into her hands perfectly. The boots, made of worn Antivan leather, she had stolen from a workman's shed barely two weeks ago. Normally, she wouldn't have bothered, but if she let her hair fall around her ears, she would survive a passing glance as human. They felt odd, like cages, and she often removed them when she knew herself to be alone.

What she needed, however, was armor. Leathers would do nicely, but though she had amassed enough coin to pay for a decent set, she had yet to find any. Her undershirt was long traded for various other shirts and tunics, but even her current one, faded red cotton taken from a farmer while he slept in the fields, was nearly worn through at the elbows, and would probably unravel itself at the barest hint of aggression. Nessum would be the first major city she had not purposely avoided, and it was only this problem and the lack of any magister related news that gave her any confidence in this trip's necessity.

In the distance, the barest hint of the city could be seen against the horizon, austere and dangerous. Still, this was a wilderness she was used to navigating; bartering and trickery had been her weapons when she held no blades. She would be safe, she was certain. 

She could not let herself think of the consequences otherwise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya!! thanks for reading the newest chapter. in honor of me always changing my fucking tumblr url (lol), i finally thought to make one for my writing exclusively! you can find me @bokutoma (writing) or @chellick (general vidya shenanigans), or on twitter @deracinatin
> 
> please leave me a comment, even if it's just a word or two! the more you comment, the more inspired i am to update literally anything lol
> 
> thanks! <3


	4. born to resist or be abused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sonsyrea should know better than to trust the imperium

Nessum was deceptively large.

Even as Sonsyrea had approached the city, it hadn't had the same air as the capital, gaudy displays of magic bursting above buildings in colorful sparks. Still, it thrummed with life, and as she had wandered the streets, she had been certain she could disappear here.

She had presented to herself to the tanner as a personal guard of House Pavus, a family line that Augustine had cursed so thoroughly that she could name each and every member going back for seven generations.

The tanner had only asked for five.

Her new leathers fit her snugly, and the Pavus crest helped her blend in, even if the family was from Minrathous. Once she left the city, she could cut it off, and then no one would be the wiser.

All around her, merchants were hawking their wares. The air smelled of Orlesian soups and Antivan cakes, Rivaini stews and Nevarran spiced meats. Merchants from Val Chevin sprayed perfumes at the unsuspecting on the same street corners that housed shops claiming to be able to make you stronger, more virile, and anything else you might desire with a special blend of herbs. Nessum was thrumming with life she had not felt since Minrathous, and, for a moment, Sonsyrea even thought she might miss Tevinter.

Phantom hands seemed to touch her even through her armor, and she quickly dismissed the notion entirely.

She had been watchful, wary in a way that was far more natural than carelessness had ever been, and she had seen nothing. Perhaps there was still time to eat - she was sick of flushing nugs out from shallow passageways, and more substantial game also risked her an injury or two.

A few coppers netted her a bowl of butter soup, the kind the Urathus household had always served when entertaining Orlesian dignitaries and diplomats. She gulped it down greedily, savoring the richness of the broth, the soft give of potatoes and noodles, the warmth it nurtured inside her. A couple more coppers got her imported pickled pigs' feet from Kirkwall, food for the road; though they smelled absolutely vile, they were at least better than the krone, which was her other option.

She had just knotted her sack firmly against the belt of her leathers, determining that it wouldn't fall off should she stumble in the thick city crowds, when she heard the first sound of danger.

It was hardly audible, and were she a human, she likely wouldn't have noticed it at all, but the metallic  _shikshikshik_ of blades being drawn was a sound that had haunted her every step nearly as much as the low tones of Augustine's voice. This was unexpected, but Sonsyrea was still ready.

She sped up in slight increments, weaving through the crowd with the kind of experience that only came from desperately trying to wear the shadows for years. They followed, and out of the corner of her eye, she could make out the Urathus crest that adorned the armor of each soldier. She couldn't afford to rely on hope any longer.

She ran.

Most of the wards in the marketplace were targeted towards thieves, so they didn't trigger even as she breached their boundaries, ducking under railings and weaving between carts and temporary storefronts. Those that weren't were easy enough to pick out. given that she knew what to look for, and slowly, she was beginning to lose them.

Then the mage appeared.

Markos was not of any prominent house and could claim no noble heritage; this made him even more vicious, as he was eager to win Augustine's support through whatever means necessary. Sonsyrea hadn't met him more than a handful of times, considering both the unwantedly intimate nature of her interactions with the Urathus heir and the low position of the other mage, but he had struck fear into her with every volent glare he sent her with cold blue eyes.

 _"Oh,"_ he said delightedly, and though she should not have been able to hear him, far apart as they were, the word sounded against her ear, and she flinched back instinctively. "How  _long_  I have waited to hunt you, bunny."

The world slowed to a crawl; she had no options left, and this was an even worse fate than the one she had left behind. Markos was unpredictable. Where Augustine had first and foremost been a man, with all the selfish cravings of one, the servant of House Urathus was a beast, and she merely the prey he had set his sights on.

But there was another figure behind him, indistinct and shadowy, flickering as it drew up behind the mage.

 _Live to seek vengeance,_ it whispered in her head.  _I will only help you once more._

Then it struck, drawing shadow-clawed hands across Markos's face. He howled in rage, and the world snapped back into sharp relief around her. 

Bloody lines were scored into the mage's face, but even as they appeared, there was no one to attribute these marks to. Either she was insane, or a demon haunted her steps.

The latter wasn't sounding so bad right about now.

She fled Nessum, and though she killed a score of Urathus men, she swore that she would never again be so helpless as to require otherworldly intervention. If she was to be a dangerous fugitive, she should damn well act like it.

To the east it was, then. Sonsyrea would have to cross the Silent Plains to be rid of Tevinter once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: @bokutoma // @chellick
> 
> twitter: @deracinatin
> 
> thanks for reading, as always!


	5. taken faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an encounter with the dread wolf of legend

Nessum was still too fresh in Sonsyrea's mind for her to even consider entering Solas. If Markos was waiting for her, and she couldn't even beat  _him,_ she didn't even want to consider what could lie in wait in other places. She still had a few pig's feet left, as well as various produce she had stolen from farms and gardens; those would have to do.

She had done what research she could on the place, given her illiteracy. Before she had sliced the House Pavus crest from her leathers, she had managed to intimidate several villagers into discussing it. Little was more than hearsay or rumors, of course, given the natural avoidance of the place, but she had learned what she needed to, chiefly that, while there would be little in the way of vegetation, there would still be plenty of game to hunt, a sight better than the nugs she had been choking down up until now.

Now she crouched in what was perhaps the last copse before the Plains began in earnest, and, as she looked at the sun-bleached expanse of land before her, she knew she had no choice but to enter.

She crept forward, wary of the place that had starred in so many whispered childhood tales. The Dalish clans' Dread Wolf was said to stalk the grayed bones of the Imperium, half man, half savage beast, and if you met him at night, it would not matter whether you were the poorest elven slave or the Black Divine himself; the six eyed monster would tear you limb from limb. Meeting him in the day would do you no better, though. He posed questions to travelers, and those that displeased him would lose all sense of direction, cursed to wander the Plains and die of exhaustion and exposure.

There were other tales, of course, chief among them being that of the ghost of Dumat, haunting the grounds where he was finally slain, but it was only Fen'Harel's that gave her pause. Sonsyrea held no particular inclination toward the gods of her ancestors, but she certainly believed they were more present than the Maker, whose absence (if he had ever existed at all) was more than apparent to her. Regardless of what she thought, though, there was nothing stopping a man with delusions of grandeur from setting up camp on the Silent Plains and letting rumor do most of the work for him.

She was clever because she'd had to be, and this was no different. She would follow her path religiously, only diverting to find food and water, and she would avoid signs of people at all cost.

As she left the shelter of the trees, the midsummer heat became inescapable. There were no places to hide from it, nothing in the shape of shelter at all out here.

This would be miserable.

* * *

It was three days before Sonsyrea found water, and five before she found game to kill. It was difficult to maintain a fire for very long, considering she had little to work with but brittle, dead bushes and thin grass, and more often than not, she had let her meat char by tossing it in rather than risking illness, but she was surviving. Only once had she come across anything resembling intelligent life, but she had stayed far away, and so remained undetected but for the wildlife she encountered.

It was on the seventh day that she received the visions.

"Da'len," spoke the shadows. She possessed the full motion of her body, and as she held her hand against the green-tinted sky, she knew where she must be.

"Hahren," she replied, the word halted and unsure on her unpracticed tongue. "I...I'm sorry, I do not speak the language of the People."

The shadows shifted, but to Sonsyrea's admittedly limited knowledge, they did not seem displeased.

They spoke again, but though the rhythms felt familiar and warm, she could only pick out bits and pieces of language.

"Sorrow..." the shadows whispered, their voice aching with untold agony. "Loss...pain..."

These were things she knew all too well.

"Ma halani, hahren," she begged, and though it was a dream, she felt the tears that flowed down her cheeks as keenly as if they were real.

The shadows drew closer, a red eye winked for the darkness. Then they whispered a name in her ear, one that chilled her to the bone.

"Fen'Harel."

Sonsyrea recoiled as though struck.  _"What?"_

"Fen'Harel'enaste," the shadows insisted.  _"Enaste."_

"I want no part of your trickery, harellan."

The shadows snarled, but though she instinctively flinched back, she did not sense aggression, only the sort of frustration that came with trying to teach a dull child.

"Don't give me that bullshit tone!" she growled right back, and a distant part of her wondered at how foolish she was, that she trembled and cowered before men but spat in the face of a god. "Speak the common tongue or resign yourself to this awkward dance, harellan."

Two more eyes blinked at her in the darkness.

Sonsyrea sighed. "Damn you false gods."

"Fen'Harel ma ghilana," the shadows said wryly. "Mar solas ena mar din."

There was a word she knew. "I am not proud," she scoffed. "Look at me. I am a slave, one who was nothing but the fuck-toy of a son of Tevinter. Maybe I escape, maybe I don't, but regardless, that is who I'll be."

"Banal nadas." A paw easily the size of her head emerged from the darkness. "Malas huem ne halam, i ma sul'ema soun."

Even as she began to protest her lack of understanding, the rhythm of the voice of the shadows washed over her.

"I will be strong," she promised, and that seemed to satisfy the creature in the dark.

"Dirthara, da'len," it said, all six eyes glowing in the dark. "Sulevin ghilana hanin. Sul mala, suledin nadas."

As she faced the Dread Wolf in the dark, Sonsyrea began to feel not quite so weak anymore.

She had gone toe to toe with a god, or a demon that took his form. She had survived. She  _would_ survive.

"Thank you," she said, for that was all she could.

"Ar'an judirtha sal," the Dread Wolf promised.

Then she woke up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> curious what the elvhen meant?? ask me on my writing tumblr!!
> 
> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma
> 
> twitter: @deracinatin


	6. left the bloodstains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> out of the frying pan, if the frying pan were like the flames of damnation

By the time Sonsyrea had fought her way free of the Silent Plains, her skin had browned beyond even its normal darkened state, and in places it burned and was tender to the touch. She wasn't bothered overmuch; she would blend in with the people of Nevarra far easier this way, and that was the most important part.

Now that she was almost free, there was one question that had begun to plague her; where would she settle once that happened?

She had heard tales of slaves who escaped, who were found by slavers regardless of their cunning, status, or importance, and though she might not have been much before, the many Urathus corpses certainly afforded her a high priority now. She needed a disguise, a plausible backstory, and friends.

Some of those would be far easier to acquire than others.

She was certain Fen'Harel - or the thing that had taken his shape - had told her where to go next, but even beyond the question of her lack of understanding, she did not know if she could trust him. The Dread Wolf was the origin of the Dalish word for liars and thieves, and it wasn't as though spirits tended to be much better.

Ah well. Nevarra first, worries later.

Still, Sonsyrea could not help but consider possible disguises to adopt. The life of the Dalish, harsh as it may have been, had always appealed to her. They had no kings, no masters but themselves, and the power they earned was on merit alone.

She could not be one of them; she was everything they hated, city born and Tevinter touched. Still, it was a nice dream.

Now, however, she had to focus her energy on crossing into Nevarra, a difficult task even when done legally. Though the magisterium's hands squeezed parts of the country, immigration and visiting was all but impossible for even lower ranked seat holders. The guards that patrolled were unsympathetic and cold, preferring not to draw ire at the cost of their moral fiber.

If she wanted to cross a checkpoint, she would need writing, and a hell of a lot more knowledge than seven generations of Pavus family members, things that were near impossible to acquire for an illiterate escaped slave.

It was a good thing, then, that she had no qualms about breaching the law.

She gathered the tangled mass of her hair into a dark, low bun and adjusted the straps of her leathers, yellow green eyes tracking the patrolling guards with the intensity of a predator.

It was time to strike.

The thin grasses around her barely whispered of her presence as she crept forward, hands on her daggers. The blades kissed her forearms like twin pairs of lovers, and her grip was loose, easy, like she had known how to do this her whole life. She had watched the men who belonged to her master for years, longing to do something to release the terrors and frustrations she had endured, but had never dreamed she would ever have the chance, never thought she could exact one iota of vengeance, never believed she'd be drawing arms against men who were not even from Tevinter.

Such was life, as the Orlesians said.

She came in low and silent like a beast of old, bare feet hitting the dry, packed earth with such precision and speed that the first guard had only begun to yell before the tendons of his knees were severed and his throat cut, rivulets of purest crimson sputtering and streaming out in quick pulses that mirrored the rabbit kicks of his heart.

The second turned, alerted by the garbled cry of his fellow, only to catch the twin drives of Sonsyrea's blades as they raked down his face, blinding him with gushing pops and an unearthly howl.

Now there were three left, bearing down on her with blades the length of her arm, and she was  _alive._ She darted back to the cover of the trees, a guard swearing in thick Nevarran as they realized she had taken out their bowmen. They would take her on her turf, by her design, or not at all, and the iron stench of the air prevented them from choosing the latter.

They were clumsy even in the sparse foliage, and Sonsyrea found herself thinking that these men would have such basic flaws flogged out of them in the armies of the Imperium.

She swooped down from the low branches like a hawk, falling upon a broad-chested man with lethal force.

Another down.

A sword screamed through the air, and she could only raise her arm partway before it hit its mark, biting into her leathers, a second and a hair's breadth away from imminent death. 

It stuck for only a moment, but it was long enough to use her free hand to sink iron into the gap between the plates of the soldier's armor. Flesh shredded as she jerked the dagger about, finally achieving the angle she desired and scoring an uneven line up to his armpit. The soldier dropped his sword as the blood spurted out, splattering Sonsyrea with gore, and by the time he fell to his knees, he was already sightless.

One left.

He did not hesitate as his peers had. He was not nearly as trained as the others, swinging his two handed sword in wild arcs, but he was unpredictable, a trait she didn't particularly care to see rise in a man as likely to gut her as she was him.

She caught the flat of his blade across her chest and stumbled; he pressed his advantage, swiping at her legs and catching her in the knee, sending her crashing to the ground.

As he advanced, she saw his cock stood full and heavy in his trousers, and she rebelled.

Sonsyrea had had more than enough experience with lechers for a lifetime.

Though the trajectory of the blade was wobbly, her aim was true, and her dagger sank into his previously occupied eye socket with a wet  _squelch,_ downing him instantly.

How long she laid there, attempting to recover, she didn't know, but it was only the though that another patrol would arrive soon that kept her from remaining for hours more. She limped out of the copse, stopping only to pluck a few leaves of elfroot, and slipped across the border like a wraith in the night, nary a living soul to see her.

Freedom was hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: sgg is going on hiatus while i work on other things!! please let me know if you have any suggestions for continuations, but until then, find me on other fics, or come back for the start of act 2!
> 
> tumblr: @bokutoma // @chellick
> 
> twitter: @deracinatin


	7. ACT I - vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back in black baby

_The Free Marches were not at all what Sonsyrea had thought they'd be like._

_The way slave lore had gone, there were hundreds of cities spilling into each other, packed streets rife with the crumbled relics and legacy of Imperium greatness._

_Mostly, she found, it was just country._

* * *

_Percute me mortuus._

* * *

_"I've never done anything but beg," she said, as casually a telling him the sun would set. A shadow passed across his face, though she had not seen anything but shadows since the first clash of weapons. "Forgive me while I learn the nuances."_

_"Why should I teach you? I was bred for this, crafted for it. You will, at best, learn nothing. At worst, you will be a hindrance."_

_She steeled herself, drew in a breath. "Anything you want, given that I can provide it, is yours."_

* * *

_"All elves from Tevinter brood. We have neither the liberty nor the means to do much else."_

* * *

_She obeyed mindlessly, instinctually, and a part of her wondered if this was a trap, if he was turning her in to some kind of authority, because when she did, she faced the Prince's seat, the royal grounds of Starkhaven._

_He noticed the falter of her step and sighed. "I know someone here, and I was supposed to meet him tonight anyway. You will be safe, I swear it."_

_"Then give me your name," she said, and she didn't quite know why it mattered so much, except that a name was everything._

* * *

_Prince?_

_Sonsyrea shied away; she did not care whose allegiance he held or what he stood for. Men in power were to be avoided, and those tangled with legend even more so._

_But that meant..._

* * *

_"You don't have to worry about me," she said, and watched curiously as Prince Vael's handsome face grew visibly relieved. She did not trust beautiful men, and those in power were afforded even less implicit respect, but something about the openness of his face soothed her faces. Perhaps he was different at court, but here in this moment, he was far too easy to read._

_A laugh bubbled up in her throat, unbidden, and before she could choke it back down, it burst forth, raw, sudden, and rusty._

* * *

_"Welcome to freedom, Sonsyrea," he said, voice warm as summer rain, and she thought that perhaps she might make it after all._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELL YEAHHHH
> 
> twitter: @deracinatin
> 
> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma


	8. never leads to nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the free marches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my explanation for why the arcanum is so shitty is slavery  
> no one taught them how to speak right  
> also i plugged everything into yandex so

The Free Marches were not at all what Sonsyrea had thought they'd be like.

The way slave lore had gone, there were hundreds of cities spilling into each other, packed streets rife with the crumbled relics and legacy of Imperium greatness.

Mostly, she found, it was just country.

There were villages here and there, ones she stalked like a wolf did the weak lamb. A brick of Qunari cheese here, a goat leg there, anything to subsist. She was far from the border of Tevinter now, but Nevarra had drained her of much gold, and she found it harder to rob those who had not wronged her.

It was a ridiculous thought. She was a woman, an elf, and if she opened her mouth, obviously from the most hated country in Thedas, save, perhaps, Par Vollen. Anyone would leap at the opportunity to earn coin by turning in a knife-eared bitch, using her as they pleased before then.

Nowhere was safe.

Kirkwall, she had thought, would be a decent place to hide, so full of chaos and bloodshed as it was. There were plenty of mercenary outposts, even more than a few headquarters. She could make a living there, she thought.

Then she had gotten the news.

The Nevarrans were not as shocked as she thought they might have been, but perhaps magic was still prevalent enough that even its misuse didn't overly surprise them.

She did not know how she felt about a mage blowing up the Chantry; it hit far too close to home. Still, she had no right to judge a display that shattered shackles that had been clamped for far too long. That had, of course, been the reason for her own flight.

Still, it made things far more difficult than they needed to be. Ostwick was far too noble, too templar proud; she had little against the Chantry, but she rarely trusted men with swords. They were definitely not at all like the ones of her homeland, permissive, lax, and passive, but military righteousness was hardly better.

Sonsyrea didn't know much about the Champion of Kirkwall, such as she was, but one of her associates was said to be the Prince of Starkhaven. It wouldn't have been a particularly  _bad_ place to go, but...

She had no excuse, no lead. Starkhaven was where Sonsyrea would go, but she meandered in the meantime, telling herself it was to avoid leaving a trail, unwilling to admit that without a plan, without directive, she was utterly and completely terrified.

She missed the spirit, missed the shadow of what could have been a god, but most of all, she missed Tevinter, and it sickened her to the core.

_Percute me mortuus._

The native Arcanum felt good on her tongue, even as it reminded her of long faded bruises and the sting of a lash.

_Percute me mortuus._

She said it as she fought highwaymen who were barely worthy of the title. They took it as a warrior's cry; she meant it both as a challenge and a plea.

_Percute me mortuus._

She said it as a village watch descended on her shoddy makeshift camp in the dead of night. They took it as a threat from a foreign tongue; she meant it both with scorn and as a prayer for a miracle.

_Percute me mortuus._

She said it when a lone swordsman swept upon her like a hurricane halfway to Starkhaven. He disarmed her with ease, glowing pale blue like the aura of a god incarnate. She hoped he would be merciful; she knew the chances were slim.

_"Percute me mortuus,_ " she begged.

The god smiled. " _Ego non puto civibus tradidit, ita facile._ "

She froze, unable to gather the strength to struggle. " _Servus venator_?"

" _Ut si,_ " he scoffed, and though he was all hard, cruel lines, he seemed to soften a little at that. " _Ego_ occidere  _servus venatores_."

Unexpectedly, even to herself, she bared her teeth. " _Ita et ego_."

He laughed, and the sound was a massive bruise to her ego. "Not well." The switch to the common tongue was abrupt and yet somehow natural, and Sonsyrea wasn't sure whether she was more sorry or relieved to hear her native tongue go. "It did not take much to disarm you."

"It was only a few months ago that I first touched a knife not meant for making meals!" she protested hotly.

"It shows."

She wanted to swear, wanted to prove him wrong, but he was right, and he hadn't said it to be cruel, she thought, just honest, though they were often the same thing. Instead, she lifted her head challengingly. "You say you are my countryman, yet no Tevinter man would let an escaped slave go unless he too knew what it was to be shackled. You are also on the run."

"My  _master_ ," he bit out, voice heavy with scorn as he spat upon the ground. "Is dead. Now I do the chasing."

"Teach me."

"You are very bad at asking for things," the elf-god said, though she could have sworn his glittering eyes laughed.

"I've never done anything but beg," she said, as casually a telling him the sun would set. A shadow passed across his face, though she had not seen anything  _but_ shadows since the first clash of weapons. "Forgive me while I learn the nuances."

"Why should I teach you? I was bred for this, crafted for it. You will, at best, learn nothing. At worst, you will be a hindrance."

She steeled herself, drew in a breath. "Anything you want, given that I can provide it, is yours."

He recoiled, the tattoos flashing, blinding her. "I am not like that."

"All men are."

Silence reigned for a long moment, and Sonsyrea wondered if he was going to leave her there, alone and purposeless.

"Fine," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet with the coarse gravel of his voice.

_Fine?_

"What is to be the cost,  _domine?_ " she asked, the words tasting acrid as fear.

"You to never call me that again," the elf-god muttered darkly. "Kill half as many slavers as I do, and we'll call it even."

And like that, Sonsyrea had an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEEHAW
> 
> percute me mortuus - strike me dead  
> ego non puto civibus tradidit, ita facile - i didn't think citizens gave up so easily  
> servus venator - slave hunter  
> ut si - as if  
> ego occidere servus venatores - i kill slave hunters  
> ita et ego - so do i
> 
> tumblr: @bokutoma // @chellick
> 
> twitter: @deracinatin


	9. somewhere to hang my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fenris and sonsyrea are brats; fenris reigns supreme

"You know," Sonsyrea began as she and the elf-god approached the gates to Starkhaven. "You never did tell me your name."

"You don't need to know it."

She snorted. "Alright, then. Would you prefer 'you there' or 'brooding elf man?'"

He halted in his tracks at that, staring at her quizzically, and, confused, she did the same.

"What?"

"I do not brood."

At that, she cracked a small, half-vicious smile. "All elves from Tevinter brood. We have neither the liberty nor the means to do much else."

"You," he replied slowly. "Are ridiculous." The corner of his mouth twitched, though, so she counted that as a victory.

"I didn't know I had a sense of humor until recently. Let me exercise it."

He sighed, and though she was beginning to enjoy pushing the lyrium branded man's buttons, Sonsyrea knew when to hold her tongue.

Instead, she asked what had been on her mind since the end of her first meeting. "Why did you change your decision?"

His eyes narrowed, but he made no response.

"Oh, come on," she needled. "Don't I deserve to know what I did that softened you?"

"Why?" he rolled his eyes. "That seems like putting myself at quite the disadvantage."

"Fine, then. Keep your secrets."

"As was my intention."

As they passed through the gates, Sonsyrea counted no fewer than fifteen guards, but not a single one stopped them, despite the fact they were armed and (somewhat) dangerous.

This elf-god knew something more than he was telling, enough that it should have sent her running for the hills, but she, despite her better judgement, trusted him.

" _Quid civitate es tu?_ " he asked when they were well within the throng of the city. She almost hadn't heard him; she was used to crowds, to be certain, but the vibrancy, the contentment, these were all brand new, and she wanted to be swept away in it.

" _Minrathous,_ " she managed, tearing her gaze away from the masses in time to see the tightening of his features. " _Et vos?_ "

" _Ego idem._ " His voice, already like a thunderstorm bearing down on her, grew rough, tempestuous. " _Qui fuit magister vester?_ "

" _Urathus,_ " she said, suddenly aware of why he had switched to Arcanum; this was not a conversation for listening ears.

She did not ask for the name of his in return, knew that if he wanted to tell her, he would. The roads of Starkhaven's commoners gave way to paved streets, lavish manors, and luxurious clothes. He did not say where they were going. She did not ask.

"Danarius," he said at length, when the streets were clear of others and the sun began to set behind the castle. "I do not know if you've heard of him-"

"I heard he died in a tavern, killed by his own investment, yes," she cut in. "But I knew his name before. A thousand slaves dead every month, it seemed. Some magisters used his name as a threat, a warning, a reason to behave, as if they were any better. I cannot decide if you are incredibly brave or incredibly lucky."

"Reckless, I would say, not to mention stupid." His expression relaxed, though, and there had been some thawing in the ice behind his gaze when he looked at her. "Take a right here."

She obeyed mindlessly, instinctually, and a part of her wondered if this was a trap, if he was turning her in to some kind of authority, because when she did, she faced the Prince's seat, the royal grounds of Starkhaven.

He noticed the falter of her step and sighed. "I know someone here, and I was supposed to meet him tonight anyway. You will be safe, I swear it."

"Then give me your name," she said, and she didn't quite know why it mattered so much, except that a name was everything.

"Fenris!" called an approaching voice, thick with the native brogue, and she startled away until the elf-god caught her by the arm, gentle but firm. "How good it is to see you, my friend. I've not heard from you in a month or so, and I was beginning to fear you'd gone to Nevarra without letting me know!"

The man was pleasant-looking enough, she thought, with his auburn-waved hair and lean physique. His eyes were piercing blue, though, and she wondered absently if he could stare through her, right into her soul.

The elf-god dipped his head in a cordial greeting. "Sebastian."

"Will you not introduce me to your friend?" the man - Sebastian - laughed. "I've not known you to make them easily."

The elf-god - Fenris, perhaps - shrugged. "I don't know her name."

Somehow, Sebastian did not seem surprised. "Give it a shot anyway, eh? We can all learn together."

Fenris grunted, although it might have been a laugh. "Alright. Sebastian, meet...?"

"Sonsyrea," she said stiffly. "Formerly of Minrathous."

"Ah," the man said, as though some mystery had been revealed.

"And Sonsyrea," Fenris continued, the low tones of his voice skipping across her name like a rock over water. "Meet Prince Sebastian Vael, ruler of Starkhaven."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @deracinatin
> 
> tumblr: @bokutoma // @chellick
> 
> quid civitate es tu - what city are you from  
> et vos - and you?  
> ego idem - i am the same  
> qui fuit magister vester - who was your master?


	10. you wanted in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a place to belong

_Prince?_

Sonsyrea shied away; she did not care whose allegiance he held or what he stood for. Men in power were to be avoided, and those tangled with legend even more so.

But that meant...

"You were the elven warrior that traveled with the Champion of Kirkwall." She did not like how her voice shook, but she couldn't help it. She was far more in the spotlight than she had ever intended to be, and surprises were the worst kind of introduction. Her hands itched for her blades, but Fenris alone had easily bested her. Though Sebastian was an archer, she had no doubt he would be her better regardless.

"What, no recognition for me?" the prince of  _bloody Starkhaven_ joked.

"You live your life constantly revered," Fenris snapped, though Sonsyrea was beginning to recognize what his teasing sounded like. "Learn to share."

"Still," Prince Vael remarked. "What did you two talk about if not any identifying details?"

"Slavery," Fenris replied drolly, as Sonsyrea said, "Tevinter."

The prince blinked in surprise, then laughed. "You must be so pleased to have met your match."

"I'll be more pleased when you quite wasting my time," Fenris muttered.

Though his smile didn't drop, the prince nodded, and his tone shifted to business. "I assume this visit  _is_ to inform me that you're leaving for Nevarra, yes?"

Fenris shifted uncomfortably, and Sonsyrea marveled that even he felt such things. "Actually, I was hoping you would house us for a time."

If anything, Prince Vael's smile widened, and the sight of it sent involuntary shivers down her spine. "Of course! I'll-"

"No charity," Fenris insisted, and Sonsyrea could not help but be relieved. She was not familiar with charity, such as it was, but she knew it was rarely ever as selfless as it claimed. "I'll be training her, but your soldiers can take some instruction as well."

"And is that her payment as well?" There was no malice in his voice; perhaps he was as kind as he appeared. Still, she could not help the tightening of her fists, and, were it not futile, she would have run far and fast.

"Of course," Fenris spat, and she startled again at hearing him act so aggressively. He stilled her again, though this time his hand back to his side as though burned. "You cannot expect a slave to pay for anything."

The prince's eyes widened, and, to his credit, he seemed truly chastened. "I should have realized," he sputtered. "Your accent is more pronounced, and I-I'm truly sorry. I hope you know I was not serious."

To her surprise, she believed him.

"You don't have to worry about me," she said, and watched curiously as Prince Vael's handsome face grew visibly relieved. She did not trust beautiful men, and those in power were afforded even less implicit respect, but something about the openness of his face soothed her faces. Perhaps he was different at court, but here in this moment, he was far too easy to read.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat, unbidden, and before she could choke it back down, it burst forth, raw, sudden, and rusty. The prince seemed startled by it before she could clap a hand over her mouth, but the corner of Fenris's mouth curled into the closest thing to a genuine smile she had seen from him.

"Welcome to freedom, Sonsyrea," he said, voice warm as summer rain, and she thought that perhaps she might make it after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @deracinatin
> 
> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma


	11. resuscitation

It should not have been so surprising that the Prince of Starkhaven's armory was one of the most impressive things Sonsyrea had ever seen.

"Well, I'm glad that  _one_ of you has some taste," Prince Vael said wryly. An uncommonly jovial grin adorned his face as he took in her reaction. "The first time Fenris saw all of this, he just shrugged."

"I was practically a war hound for years," he drawled. Sometimes it was damnably hard to tell whether he was approximating a joke. "You'd have to show me the original Blade of Mercy to get much out of me, considering Hawke gave me one of the replicas."

"Spoiled," she muttered, then winced reflexively.

Instead, Prince Vael laughed. "I don't think anyone's ever accused you of that before."

"I don't think anyone's had the  _gall._ "

Despite the harsh dryness of his words, Fenris sounded like he might laugh, and Sonsyrea wondered who he had been, if he had ever smiled in the Champion's company.

If he had, she would have liked to have seen it.

"Though, I suppose I am now." His lip curled, but she saw it for what it was, reflection, and not the disgust it appeared to be. "Walking into a royal's home like I belong here."

"You  _do,_ " Prince Vael said, and though it was clear the sentiment was well-meant, Fenris shot her a wry look, and she knew the princeling didn't -  _couldn't_ \- understand.

"That you do," she said, and though sweetness wasn't in her repertoire, sarcasm and falsity were staples that flowed like honey over her words.

He snorted as Prince Vael looked between them confusedly, and all felt blessedly right with the world.

* * *

"Your stance is decent enough, I suppose, if a bit too forward leaning. Where did you learn it?"

When Sonsyrea had acknowledged that she was to be trained in a fucking castle, she hadn't thought the bleeding prince would be directing her.

"I'm not an expert with daggers," Prince Vael - or Sebastian, as he insisted on being called - had warned, but he was trouncing her nonetheless. Fenris watched, impassive and calculating, as they sparred, but he had offered no comment beyond grunting and muttering asides that she was quite certain she didn't want to hear anyway.

"How did you even escape?" Fenris finally asked, a dark eyebrow lifted in mocking question. "Was every guard bent over and asking for a dagger in the ass?"

"Head up it to boot," she shot back, and was gratified to receive another derisive snort, the closest, it seemed, that he came to laughter.

"I'm hardly surprised."

"She's not bad, just unpracticed," Sebastian interjected.

"Same thing," they said, practically in unison, and the princeling shook his head."

" _Please_ stop doing that odd mind reading thing."

Fenris shrugged. "I can't help that you were born without a brain."

The princeling sighed. "And I suppose I can't help that you were born without a sense of humor."

It was something close to comfortable, this banter, and even as a week passed in this fashion, Sonsyrea did not feel the need to run.

On the eighth morning, though, Fenris was waiting for her, sword in hand.

"Leathers," he said, and she was swift to obey. He did not emote much - this was more than obvious to anyone who ever came within a five foot radius of him - but she had learned to tell what he was feeling by the smoothness of his voice.

Now, it was the grumble of a standing army seconds before battle, and she knew his mind well.

He hungered for iron and steel, leather and flesh, so she would give him the former and none of the latter.

When his blade hit both of hers, she wasn't prepared for the resounding  _clang_ to strike its way into her bones.

She had not expected him to possess so much strength. He was lean, as all elves were, and though he very clearly had the physique of a swordsman, she had forgotten the strength that lay behind it. How much of it was lyrium given, she wondered, and how much was raw will?

She whirled back, narrowly avoiding a crushing blow; there was no way she could contest him directly, and the feral grin on his face told her that he knew that well.

It would have to be speed, then. 

Sonsyrea had never been much of a dancer, but she learned as she twirled across the training grounds, feinting with one blade and striking with the other. Dodging Fenris's questing blade and hungry eyes was the name of the game; one deft slash would send her flying.

She hadn't much cared for fighting - the Imperium was bloody enough as it was - but this was a waltz she would not mind performing again.

Prince Vael may have shown up at some point, but she only took notice enough to determine he was unarmed and neither attacking nor aiding, so sh put him from her mind.

Fenris did not taunt; it was not in his nature to be arrogant, she thought, just honest, something she could relate to. His eyes, though, they dared her to mess up, to give an inch, and she knew that, in a real battle, he would be her end.

Twenty minutes later, she knelt, flushed and panting, before him, the tip of his sword a hair's breadth away from her chest.

"Do you yield?" he asked.

"For now," she replied, and her tired smile was met with a quick one of his own.

"As it should be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @ghostheirin
> 
> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma
> 
> dm me on twitter about commissions! ya girl gotta eat


	12. now you're here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> opening up is hard work

It took three weeks for Sonsyrea to best Fenris.

He had stumbled, something quite unusual, to be fair, and she had leapt upon the opportunity,pressing him to the ground and straddling him with a dagger to his neck. Eventually, she frowned, realizing she had only won due to luck.

"Fuck," she muttered, and, to her surprise, Fenris laughed.

"Excellently done," he said, taking her offered hand to pull himself up. "I promised you something for your victory. What do you wish of me?"

"I hardly think I've earned a boon."

"You beat me, did you not?" The usual haughtiness of his expression multiplied.

"Technically."

He seemed unimpressed by her lack of acknowledgement. "And if I were your real opponent, would I not be dead?"

She sighed. "I suppose you would."

"Then you won, and you've more than earned it. You pressed your advantage." His eyes locked with hers, and she found that, for a moment, she couldn't think. "Sometimes your opponent will be stronger, faster, more skilled, and better than you in every way. If you have no choice but to fight, then look for those mistakes. Everyone makes them."

Unbidden, the smallest of smiles rose to her face. "Thank you."

He didn't speak for a long moment, and she found that she couldn't tell if it was due to his usual reticence or a sort of nervous embarrassment that came with trying to reassure someone.

"I mean it," she said, wanting to say more but deciding against it in light of the rare emotion he showed. "Either way, though, could I request my prize?"

"I suppose," he agreed. "And what would you have?"

She lowered herself to the ground, crossing her legs and looking up at him even as his expression morphed to one of confusion. "Tell me about the Champion."

"The Champion?" He sighed. "I suppose you would like to know which of the stories are true, hm? Whether we really faced down a high dragon in the Bone Pit, whether Hawke had a secret spy network made of all the whores in the Blooming Rose, whether she had several torrid, passionate affairs with prominent Kirkwall nobles?"

Sonsyrea shook her head. "What was she like?"

The closest thing to surprise that she had ever seen him wear crossed his face briefly. "What was she  _like_? Do you not hear the stories?"

"They tell me of her deeds, grandiose things that I can neither validate nor glean any real meaning from." She shrugged. "I want to know who she was."

Fenris snorted, but he obliged, mimicking her posture as he settled on the floor across from her. "I'm not certain anyone has ever asked me that before, once they realize who I knew."

"I'd still like to hear the dragon story. It just doesn't interest me as much."

"Said no one ever."

"If you don't want to tell me-"

"Did I say that?" He arched his eyebrow disdainfully, and she did not bother suppressing the responding twitch of her mouth. "Just give me a moment to think. It is...difficult to sum Hawke up in one conversation."

"You must think quit highly of her. I don't think I've ever seen you take so long to describe someone."

"Of course. All heroes are, in some way, worthy of praise, but I saw the little things as well as the big ones. I knew her almost as well as one could know another." He smiled grimly. "She was my first friend."

"And now?"

"I can still count them on one hand."

"Still, what a fortunate hand."

"Indeed." He sighed once more. "We were talking about Hawke, though."

"That we were. I'll hold my tongue from this point."

"I doubt that's possible for you."

Petulantly, she stuck out her aforementioned tongue, but allowed him to continue with no further interruption.

"Hawke...the most obvious thing about her to anyone who met her, the  _real_ her, the one unfettered after a battle or a few drinks and not the mercenary facade she put on to deal with nobles or sketchy Lowtown thugs, was that she was, and likely still is, absolutely insane."

"What a favorable impression."

"I mean it in the best way possible. Nobody else would have given anyone in her crew half a chance, but she trusted us at her back regardless. She was someone who always looked out for the little people. Probably a quarter of her damned fortune went to the people and Darktown and Lowtown, and let me tell you, it was sizable."

Sonsyrea leaned back on her hands, unsure what she was feeling, whether it was jealousy or longing or something entirely different. "She helped you slay Danarius, right?"

"She did. She helped me hunt Hadriana, did not question when I bartered with her and went back on it, stood up to a magister in a way I've never seen someone do before."

"She sounds lovely."

The look on his face as he met her eyes was impossible to read. "She was the dearest friend I've ever had."

There were a thousand words she wanted to say.

"You will find someone like that as well," he said, and Sonsyrea startled before a smile curled across her face.

"Perhaps I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @ghostheirin
> 
> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma


	13. i'm your fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fission

"I'm leaving for Nevarra in a week's time," Fenris announced over dinner.

It had become a habit, the two of them taking the meal late and alone, cross-legged in the sparse room Sebastian had lent her - the original had been far too lavish for her comfort. She had grown...comfortable here, in a way that she was starting to accept. To hear that he was leaving...

"I assume I'm coming with you," she said, her tone perhaps a bit sharper than intended.

"If you would like to." He seemed dispassionate, uncaring, and, unbidden, a sharp flash of anger pulsed in her stomach.

"That was our deal, was it not?" Now there was a distinct bitterness to her voice; she had thought that they were closer now, that, if not friends, he at least held some measure of respect for her.

"It was." He set his bowl aside, leaned forward slightly. "But there is much about you that is still unknown. Besides, would you not rather be somewhere you could make a living, a life?"

Her hand tightened around her spoon until her grip was white-knuckled and laced with helpless fury. "All you have ever needed to do is  _ask._ Anyway, aren't you the prime example of what you're suggesting being impossible? They will hunt me no matter how far I run unless I  _continue_ running. There is no life for me."

He sighed. "I will cross into Tevinter."

"And what?" She narrowed her eyes until only a sliver of yellow-green was visible. "Do you think me too delicate to go back? That I will fall apart at the slightest provocation?"

"I don't want you to have to go back!" he exploded, hurling his empty bowl at the wall, where it shattered into fragments. "I've been free nearly a decade and it still haunts me!"

"I know the country better than you do now," she snarled. "And I will not rest until every last one of my tormentors is dead!"

"They will not hunt you, you stupid girl." He looked like a beast, eyes flashing in the candlelight and lips pulled back from his teeth. She was not afraid. "I was an investment, an experiment, and too much gold to throw away. You were a  _maidservant._ Even if you killed some of your master's men, they will move on."

"The Urathus heir has a scar on his face to remember me by." A distant part of Sonsyrea's mind wondered what a fright she must appear to be, what both may have appeared to an outsider. "Don't  _ever_ speak of what you don't know."

The door burst open; Sebastian rushed in, looking a particular mixture of harried and concerned that she suspected was reserved for the two of them.

"Are you both alright?" His brogue, never very hidden as it was, thickened even further. "I heard a crash, and there was quite a lot of shouting."

Fenris scoffed. " _Yes,_ we're  _quite_ alright, if you discount the lunacy that has arrested her mind."

" _My_ mind?" She took an instinctive step forward. "You might be the only person daft enough to have been through what we have and expect me to play the part of a docile damsel while you gallivant around taking vengeance!"

Sebastian's eyes widened. "Is that not why you've been training her?"

Pale blue light flashed across the room, a warning only the prince seemed to mind, as he took a few steps back. "I  _trained_ her because she asked. I'm not going to babysit her, even if she's better than she was before."

"Oh, fuck you, you bastard.-"

He whipped around to face her. "You said it yourself. You've only ever beaten me the once, and it was  _my_ mistake, not your skill. That's plenty good enough if you're going to stay here, but you'd be a liability in more ways than one. There hasn't been enough time to forget your face if you  _did_ do what you claimed, and I prefer not to announce my presence before I strike."

Sonsyrea could feel every muscle in her body tense and her stare turn stony. For a long moment, she stood there as Sebastian said something she couldn't hear over the roaring in her ears, gaze looked onto the cold emerald of his own.

He did not back down.

Unable to bear it any longer, she whirled around and stomped out of the room, the tastes of betrayal and inferiority bitter on her tongue.

* * *

"You're being ridiculous," Sebastian said once the heavy fall of Sonsyrea's footsteps had faded.

Fenris dug his nails further into the palms of his hands, desperately trying to rein in his temper, a difficult task when it was being plucked apart by two separate parties. "Am I? I don't see where you have any point of reference, or even superiority in your decision-making."

Sebastian did not rise to the bait, something he usually admired, but right now, Fenris needed the prince to stoop to his level, to fight back. "Do you think you'd have the relative peace of mind that you do now if you had not been the one to kill both Hadriana and Danarius?"

"I had multiple people at my back, Hawke included-"

"Answer the question, Fenris."

He knew the answer that Sebastian sought, knew that he did not want to give it to him.

The prince sighed. "There are ways to disguise a face, and if I asked Merrill, I'm positive we could sort that concern out immediately. As for the fighting, what better way to improve than on the road. I know you don't see it, but she's already better than some of my guardsmen, and you forget that she made it here alone."

Silence.

Sebastian rubbed his temples. "Think about it."

And as the damnable bastard walked away, Fenris already knew what his answer would be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @ghostheirin
> 
> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma


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